


i'm hoping you weren't heaven sent

by devilsalwayscry



Series: Some are Born to Endless Night [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Dante is a Dhampir, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, V is a Witch, V was Vergil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 07:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsalwayscry/pseuds/devilsalwayscry
Summary: cause only hell knows where you've beenIt’s been five years since Dante’s seen his brother, since Vergil was stripped of his vampiric heritage when he failed to defeat Mundus for control of their clan. When Trish comes to him about a silver-haired stranger wandering around his old hunting grounds, he can’t help but go check it out, too curious to let it rest. Living in a relic from his teen years he finds V--his brother, still alive, but human.





	i'm hoping you weren't heaven sent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JJKMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJKMagic/gifts).

> For the Spardacest Discord server Summer Secret Santa gift exchange! I hope this is to your liking! For the prompts vampire AU and soft/fluffy smut. I TRIED VERY HARD TO BE SOFT FOR YOU <3
> 
> There's some quick world building in this and then cute vampire moments and then an exceptional amount of fluff. I regret attempting to set up an AU in a 5k word limit, but ALAS. <strike>I suppose that means I will just have to write more of dhampir Dante and his witch boyfriend V someday.</strike>

It’s been five years since Dante’s seen his brother.

That’s the first thought that pops into his head as he walks into the forest that surrounds their old hideout: five years. Five years since Vergil tried, and failed, to overthrow Mundus for control of their clan. Since Mundus ripped him apart for it, stripped him of his heritage and banished him to god only knows where.

Dante looked for him. He left the clan, struck out on his own, and searched everywhere. Spent years just wandering the countryside near their home base as a mercenary, picking up jobs, hunting his own kind. What better way to find out what Mundus was up to than to kill any of his lackeys that Dante could get his hands on? He’d hoped, somewhere in all of that fighting, that he’d find a lead on what had happened to Vergil.

He hadn’t, but he had found Mundus himself, and so he had done what his brother could not: he had killed him, and then he had left the clan for good, and he’d moved on.

Which is why it’s so weird to be back here now, standing in this forest, staring at the little wooden hut where he and his brother used to hide out when they needed to get away from the clan. He never thought he’d come back here, but then Trish had tipped him off to someone creeping around their old hunting grounds, and he’d been unable to stay away. A little voice in the back of his mind had whispered “what if?” and he hadn’t been able to shut it up and move on, so here he stands, tucked between thick brush, watching this memory from thirty-five years ago and waiting for something to happen.

There’s a trail of smoke winding out of the little brick chimney at the top. Clusters of herbs and vegetables have been cultivated in a perimeter around the hut, dense and well tended. All signs point to someone currently living here, which isn’t all that surprising. It’s structurally sound, even after all these years, and off the beaten path. It’d make a great hideout--had made a great hideout, back when he’d stayed here with his brother.

The problem, of course, is that no one should’ve stumbled upon the area in the first place. While his clan has long since moved on, most people aren’t dumb enough or brave enough to wander into well known vampire territory, let alone set up a permanent residence there. Whoever is currently living here must be brave or stupid or both, and that makes Dante curious--can’t help it. Once he’s able to sate his curiosity, he’ll leave them alone and move on again.

It doesn’t take long for the new resident to come outside and the moment they walk into the front yard, Dante feels like all of the air has been punched out of his lungs.

The man is slim, but tall, dressed in dark trousers and a long-sleeved, light gray blouse with shiny black riding boots buckled up to his knees. He’s holding in one hand a small wicker basket, which he begins filling with sprigs of herbs he plucks from the plants lining the front of the house. More striking than all of that, however, is his hair: wavy, shimmering silver, cut to his chin and catching the light that filters in through the forest canopy above. Dante is immediately captivated by him, shocked into inaction by the sight.

Despite his unusual appearance, Dante doesn’t think he’s a dhampir--he’d be able to tell. He’s felt that connection a few times in his life, first with Vergil and then with Nero, and so he is reasonably certain that this man before him is not one of his kind. There is, however, something about his presence, a dull flare of connection that tugs at Dante’s senses, and for a brief, horrible moment, he feels a flicker of hope stir in his chest.

Before he can debate on the matter further, the man pushes himself to his feet with a silver cane Dante had not noticed before, then turns. His eyes are emerald green, Dante notices, as the man stands and stares directly at Dante’s hiding spot. A coy smile curls at his lips.

“Stealth is not your strong suit,” the man says, quirking one silvery brow in Dante’s direction. For a moment, the dhampir hesitates. He could flee and there would be little this human could do to stop him, and yet that voice, the hair, the fact he is _here_, in all places, is too much to ignore. He must talk to him.

Because he is a man who understands the importance of maintaining a carefully crafted persona, Dante shows none of these insecurities as he saunters from between the trees and into the front lawn of the hut. He knows he makes quite the image--between the silver hair and the silver eyes, the sword that rests on his back, it is abundantly clear what he is. He has never bothered to hide it, has found things are easier if he flaunts it in this line of work. Worked for finding Mundus, at least.

Might’ve worked for finding--

He stops himself before he can finish the thought. _Don’t jump to conclusions,_ he thinks, trying to snuff out that flicker of hope that burns hot behind his ribs before it can flare to life and consume him. With a practiced laziness, he tucks his hand against his chest and bows in greeting, looking up through his eyelashes to carefully watch the man for a reaction.

“Hope I didn’t bother you,” Dante says as he straightens once more. He gestures at the house with a broad sweep of his hand. “Can’t believe this place is still standing, but hey, I like what you’ve done with it. Needed a little bit of TLC.”

The man, for his part, does not react to Dante’s obviously otherworldly appearance at all. He appraisingly watches Dante through narrowed eyes, sweeping his gaze over Dante’s body from head to toe. It makes his skin itch, his instincts prickle faintly, to be so thoroughly inspected, but he does nothing to stop him.

Seemingly satisfied with whatever he sees, the man turns, walking back to the front door of the hut. He opens it, stepping inside, before turning to look at Dante once more, that same knowing smirk plastered on his pale face.

“I was just sitting down to tea, if you’d care to join me,” the man says, before turning and disappearing into the hut.

Dante laughs as he walks to the front door, standing just outside of the threshold. “Gonna have to shoot me an official invite,” he says, which is not true, because this house was once his, but he’s testing something. There’s a familiarity there, in the way the man looks at him and addresses him, and the hope inside of him flares into brilliant incandescence when the man sighs from within the house and says:

“We both know that is unnecessary in this situation.”

Dante’s stomach does a backflip in response, but he walks inside with all of the casual arrogance and composure he has worked so hard to perfect in his life, a lazy grin plastered onto his face.

“You got me there.”

The hut is cozy and warm, a single room that has been filled with furniture both new and old. Dante recognizes some of it--the bookshelf, the table tucked into the corner, the bedframe--but many things are new, bringing a warmth to the place that it lacked even when they inhabited it as teenagers. Dried herbs hang from the window and the wooden beams that cross the ceiling. Coals smolder beneath a pot of water in the fireplace. A lush purple rug has been thrown across the dirty wooden floor, covering the worst of the rot that Dante suspects lies beneath. 

Sitting out on the table are a teapot and two cups, as if he had been expecting Dante.

“Nice place,” Dante says, as he walks through the room and reacquaints himself with this redecorated version of his history. The man has moved to the fireplace, where he is retrieving the kettle with a long pair of metal tongs. Dante watches him with interest, doing nothing to hide his staring.

“Sit,” the man says as he turns, nodding toward the table and its two small wooden chairs. Dante complies. There is something in his voice, a commanding undertone, that he finds he cannot help but immediately obey.

_He’d been like that, too_, he thinks, before he can stop his treacherous brain from going down that path once more. It is hard _not_ to and Dante sits with his hands clutching the edge of the table, staring at the man and digging his fangs into the inside of his cheek.

He cannot resist any more: “What’s your name?” It’s the most innocuous question he can think to ask, although it’s definitely _not_ what he wants to ask. The man ignores him at first, taking a seat across from Dante once he has filled the tea kettle with boiling water. He stirs at the dried leaves he adds to the kettle idly, watching Dante while he does so with an unblinking stare, before he finally concedes to respond:

“You may call me V.”

That does it--Dante pushes back from the table, chair scraping on the old wooden floor boards, and crosses his arms with a sigh.

“So what, are we just not going to talk about this?” He nods his head at V, feeling like he’s losing his mind a little. It’s got to be him, somehow, in some way, he can just--he can _tell._ They might’ve had their issues, a rocky relationship the last, god, thirty years before Vergil fell to Mundus, but he can still tell.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” V replies, leaning forward to pour some tea into Dante’s cup. Dante slams his fist on the table, sending the tea cups rattling across the table. V doesn’t so much as bat an eye in response.

“Bull_shit_ there’s nothing to talk about--”

“Dante.”

The way he says his name is like a shot to the heart and he freezes, staring at him, chest heaving. 

It takes every single ounce of composure that he has to wrangle his emotions back into check. He forces the tension to ease out of his shoulders a little, stepping down from attack stance to something a little more guarded, cautious. Dante leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Don’t act like that with me. You don’t get to play the older brother card any more,” Dante says, glaring into the pale amber liquid of his tea, unable to meet his eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

"You saw what happened," V responds, pulling his cup of tea close, cradling it in his hands. "After my... failure, this is all that remains."

Dante pushes his hand through his hair, sighing between clenched teeth. "Why didn't you come to me, V? I would've done something, found some way to fix it. I could have at least protected you."

"I don't need or want your protection, Dante. I am not helpless," he snarls, a little bit of his old self showing through with that, and it makes something dance behind Dante's ribs to hear that familiar stubborn resolve. "Besides, it was unsafe to do so before." He smirks, taking a drink of his tea. "You were doing a remarkable job holding Mundus' attention."

Dante laughs. "Yeah, guess so. But still," he says, finally looking up from his tea to look V in the face, even though it feels a little like stabbing himself between the ribs with the Yamato to do so. "I thought you were dead."

"I was, in a sense," he replies, shrugging one slim shoulder. "But Mundus has been slain and I have regained some semblance of a life, human though it may be. Think of this as... a new beginning."

It's so unlike him that it makes Dante pause. His brother had been nothing if not eager for more strength, more prestige--he'd wanted Mundus' position of leadership over the clan as much to simply _have_ it as to avenge their father and mother. Whatever has happened to him to strip him of his vampiric heritage and power has tempered those desires, apparently, and the idea is so foreign to Dante that he finds himself looking at V through a new lens.

A new beginning... The hope that burns hotly behind his ribs flares into blinding life.

"Okay," he says, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He still doesn't understand what happened to his brother, but he's spent the last five years of his life desperately wishing for a chance to do things over, and maybe... maybe that's what this is. Maybe that’s exactly what they need.

"Now," V says, finishing his tea and reaching across the table to refill his cup, a sly smile curling at the corners of his lips. "Tell me how you killed him."

\--  
It becomes a routine after that: Dante visits him when he is in between jobs, staying for days at a time, helping him with his garden or his magic. It is familiar and companionable, comfortable in a way that he has not experienced in years. There is something about V’s presence that brings Dante a peace he has not known since that day his brother vanished. He is drawn to him, a gravitational pull that he cannot ignore, and their days are spent filling in the blanks that has been created by the five years between them.

Dante patrols the forest when he’s there, much to V’s chagrin, but it makes him feel better about this human reincarnation of his brother--for that is really what V is, Dante thinks--to know that the old Sparda hunting grounds are safe. However, V is not helpless on his own right, something Dante learns quickly: he has taken up witchcraft as a means to defend himself, weaving a complicated web of barriers and wards and spells into the earth and trees around the hut to mask his presence.

Knowing that he has a tried and true means to defend himself makes Dante feel better about him staying out here in vampire territory. The few times Dante's tried to express concern on that matter, V has shot him down with a stern glare or a well-placed smack of his cane (he wields the damn thing almost as effectively as his old sword, the bastard).

His concern ends up being misplaced--_he's_ the one who needs V's help, in the end.

It should've been an easy hunt, a cluster of ghouls not too far from the old Sparda clan hunting grounds (to be honest, he had taken it because of their proximity to V, fearing they may find the human’s location). However, he'd slipped up in a moment of overconfidence, and now he's limping his way through the forest toward V's hut with a hand to his chest to staunch the bleeding and a busted up leg.

This is really his own fault. Dante’s always avoided feeding as long as he can, always hated that part of his heritage and the demands of his blood, but that has some... consequences, in the long run. Like stunted healing abilities and a weakness that makes his limbs feel heavy and slow, a complication that had left him open to the attacks of a particularly feral and nasty ghoul.

Through the grace of his vampiric heritage, Dante makes it as far as V's front door before he starts to feel like he's going to black out from blood loss. He doesn't really bother to knock, instead slapping the flat of his hand against the door once before just opening the damn thing and stumbling inside. V is up and out of his bed the instant the door opens, both hands clutching Dante's shoulders to help hold him up right, his brow creased in obvious concern.

"Hey V," Dante says, managing to give him a lazy sort of grin through the darkness that threatens to overtake his vision, "Could use a hand.”

He staggers when he tries to take another step, but thankfully V manages to catch him, arms hooking under his armpits to hold him upright against his chest. The smaller man shakes a little with the effort of it--Dante's a big guy, and if there's anything he's learned about V since they reconnected, it's that he rather lacks the physical strength of his former self--but through sheer determination he manages to drag Dante to his bed. 

V deposits him on the mattress, pushing him into a sitting position against the wall with a firm, warm hand on his chest. Dante reaches for his wrist on reflex when he moves to pull away, earning a quiet chuckle from V, despite the circumstances.

"Let me," V says, a half formed thought, but Dante gets the hint and lets go. His chest hurts like hell where the ghoul had torn a rough slash down his torso from shoulder to hip, and it's infuriating a little, because the wound _shouldn't_ be a big deal. He tries to remember how long it's been since he actually properly fed, but can't come up with anything through the haze of pain that muddies his thoughts.

V must be thinking the same thing, because when he comes back with a damp cloth to begin cleaning and inspecting the wound on Dante's chest, he's making a face that Dante distinctly knows is his "disappointed older brother" expression. It's set apart from the image that Dante remembers of it by a softness on the edges, a look of open concern that the memory in Dante's head never readily expressed. The warmth in his chest flares back to life, despite the pain and discomfort.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" V asks as he explores the wound with deft fingers, swiping away blood with the cloth so he can inspect the worst of it. Judging by his frown, it's just as nasty as Dante suspected, and he lets out a weak little laugh and drops his head back against the wall while V moves on to examine his leg.

"Keeps life interesting," Dante responds, to which V snorts derisively while jabbing at a particularly tender part of Dante's leg. He hisses in a pained breath in response. Bastard.

"You're going to end up dead one day because of it," V says, the words lacking any real heat. He sounds almost worried, tone softened with concern. With a final swipe of his fingers up Dante's leg, he pulls away, dropping the now bloodied cloth onto the floor near the bed. There is a moment of hesitation where he looks at Dante warily, no doubt weighing his options, before he reaches for the topmost button of his nightshirt and yanks the collar open, barring the pale column of his throat to the dim firelight of the hut. Dante stiffens, immediately understanding V's intent, recoiling even as he feels his fangs lengthen in his mouth and the dark, painful emptiness in his stomach writhe.

"Nope," he says, lifting a hand to place it on V's shoulder as the smaller man climbs onto the bed. "Not an option." 

"Don't be an idiot," V hisses; it's a testament to Dante's sorry state that V's able to pry his fingers off of his shoulder with little effort. He climbs over Dante with clear intent, dropping himself onto his thighs and placing his hands on his broader shoulders. "I would prefer to not scrub your blood from the floorboards after you bleed out."

It's a weak attempt at humor, but Dante appreciates it all the same. He knows this is the best option here, and now that he's started to think about it--about feeding, for the first time in however long, from _V_ of all people--the hunger burns inside of him, impossible to ignore. With a groan he places his hands on V's waist, rubbing his thumbs into his hip bones gently.

"You sure about this?" He asks, and V rolls his eyes and leans a little closer, looping his arms around Dante's neck, caging him in.

"I trust you to not kill me," V replies, tilting his head and baring his throat to Dante. The motion, the smell of him now that he's this close, and the empty hunger in his gut all collide in his brain and he gives in to instinct, surging forward to clamp his mouth on the soft curve where V's throat meets his shoulder. As his fangs pierce soft skin, he hears V suck in a sharp inhale of breath, his arms around Dante’s neck tightening in response. 

Dante slides his hands up V’s sides to press one against the small of his back, cupping the side of his neck with the other, before he loses himself to the base, inherent act of feeding that is coded into his dhampir DNA.

V tastes _amazing_, smokey and sharp and familiar, and the blood that bursts onto his tongue sends an electric jolt down his spine. He tightens his grip, sinking in his fangs further to draw more of that delicious essence into his mouth, moaning low in his throat as he sucks at the curve of V’s throat. The other man is impossibly warm beneath his hands, soft and supple and alive, and Dante feels like he could tear him apart and still never have enough of him. 

Dull human nails digging into the back of Dante’s skull drags him back into focus, and he hums a gentle apology against the wound beneath his mouth. V has a particular knack at knowing how to read Dante, something that has become apparent in their time together these past few months. His touch refocuses Dante, tips the scale back toward his humanity once more. 

“Dante,” V says, voice thin and tired—a warning. It takes all of his restraint to pull his mouth away from V’s neck, and even then he cannot help but to drag his tongue along the smeared blood that he leaves behind, licking at the wound apologetically. 

The effect on him is almost instantaneous: warmth spreads out from his belly, slowly creeping down his limbs and up his neck, an ambrosia to restore his strength. The wound on his chest has already begun to knit closed. 

In his lap, V quietly pants, biting his lip as he clings to Dante’s neck for support. When Dante leans back against the wall once more, V follows after him, lying bonelessly against his chest and breathing slowly. Dante buries his face into the soft waves of V’s hair, running his hands apologetically up and down his slim back. 

“I’m sorry,” Dante says, and then adds, “Thank you,” because it is only polite. V laughs weakly against his chest. 

“Don’t apologize,” V says, voice so quiet Dante almost can’t hear him. He’s going to need time to rest—this has no doubt taken a considerable amount out of him. Careful not to disturb him too much, Dante rotates on the bed until they are lying on it properly, their legs awkwardly intertwined and V’s arms still tightly wound around his neck. When it seems that V has no intention of letting go any time soon, Dante pulls him close, arms wrapped around his torso protectively. He licks the blood from his mouth before leaning down to press a kiss against V’s forehead, unable to resist, feeling especially fond of him in this moment.

It’s the most physical contact they’ve had since Dante stumbled upon him a few months ago, and it sends a shudder down his spine, how easy it is to just give in to this. V’s looking at him out of half-lidded eyes that reflect the dull fire in the fireplace, a soft expression on his face that Dante can’t really place.

“Really, though,” Dante whispers, feeling like he owes something to V for this. “Thank you.”

V rolls his eyes, then tightens his arms around Dante’s neck to pull him closer, capturing his mouth in his. 

The kiss is electrifying, setting all of his nerves ablaze with the gentle press of V’s soft lips against his and the slick swipe of his tongue across Dante’s bottom lip. He opens his mouth to the lazy probing of V’s tongue, unable to stop the moan that works its way out of his chest as the other man laps the taste of his own blood from Dante’s mouth. When he pulls away, he’s smiling faintly, lips stained pink, looking equal parts triumphant and exhausted. Dante laughs.

“Get some rest.”

V dozes then, lulled into slumber by the exhaustion of blood loss and the warmth of Dante’s embrace around him. Although Dante needs little sleep, he joins him, comforted by the feeling of V in his arms. He strokes his hand lazily up and down V’s back while he drifts in and out of unconsciousness, pressing light kisses to the crown of his soft silvery hair in each brief moment of wakefulness. 

He is finally brought back to the land of the living by the feeling of V’s lips on his jaw. When he cracks open an eye, V has rolled on top of him, head tucked under his chin and arms loose around his torso, a devilish look in his eyes.

“You’re handsy,” Dante says, placing his hands on V’s lower back and hips, holding him close against his chest. V hums quietly in response, reaching up to cradle Dante’s face, tracing his thumbs along the edge of his jaw. He’s inspecting him, trailing his fingers over his cheeks and the silvery stubble that lines his chin, brow creased in thought as he maps out the creases of Dante’s face with exacting precision. Dante simply lets him, tilting his head whenever V’s hands nudge him in one direction or another. When V tilts his head upward, leaning forward to bite against Dante’s throat with dull human teeth, he lets him do that, too, and his pulse quickens at the intimacy of it, the trust. V might not be a vampire, but the motion is a sign of submission either way, one that Dante gives over willingly.

The meaning isn’t lost on V, either, and he pushes himself up on his elbows, hunching over Dante as he viciously bites at his throat. Arousal flares to life in Dante’s belly, pools between his legs, and he grabs V’s hips and pushes him down, hard, against his burgeoning erection, seeking friction. It earns a quiet gasp from V; he breaks off from Dante’s throat to hold himself upright, hands pressed to the mattress on either side of Dante’s head and brow creased.

It takes minimal effort to flip their positions--Dante sits up, careful to hold V steady, and flips the other man onto his back. He settles between his legs with a contented sigh, peppering kisses on V’s face and chin and forehead, against every inch of him he can reach. The grumble this earns him in response is quiet and light-hearted, lacking any actual hint of annoyance or anger, and he laughs in between smothering V with kisses. 

“You’re an oaf,” V complains, looping his arms around Dante’s neck, letting him do whatever it is he wants.

“Mm-hmm,” Dante mumbles back, too preoccupied with his expedition of V’s neck and collarbone to provide an answering quip. He slips his hands down V’s sides and to the soft cotton hem of his trousers, hooking his fingers beneath. Here he pauses, lifting his head from V’s shoulder to look down at him quizzically, an unspoken question in his gaze--is this okay?

V drags him into another kiss as answer.

He has V undressed and writhing beneath his touch mere moments later, one arm thrown across his face as he sighs and shudders in response to the firm press of Dante’s fingers inside of him. Flushed and biting back each moan like this, he’s unbearably gorgeous, and Dante tells him as much, whispers it into the sensitive spot beneath his ear over and over again. When he finally presses inside of him, slow and steady, V looks at him with such open and honest devotion that Dante feels like his chest is going to explode.

“Shit,” he groans, pressing a kiss against V's forehead, drunk on the feeling of V's body beneath him, warm and soft and so full of life. “I think I love you.” He says it as a joke, a laugh blending with his words, but he means it, god, he means every single word. Should've said it sooner, wishes he had; considers himself lucky that he's able to, now, at least.

V laughs around a moan, hands clutching at Dante’s back, nails digging into his skin. “Do you always profess your love during your first time?”

“Mm, nah,” Dante responds, rolling his hips to pry a wonderful, breathy gasp out of V’s lips. “Only for you.”

Shock flits across V’s expression before being replaced by something soft, warm and gentle, a small grin tugging at his lips. Quietly he whispers, “I see,” and his grip tightens, pulling Dante impossibly close, as if he cannot get enough of their contact. “In that case.” He presses his lips to Dante's chin, warm and soft, and mouths the words into his flesh--a benediction, a declaration, of everything they have never been able to say before, and they lose themselves in each other's embrace, thinking of new beginnings and second chances.


End file.
